


My Faultless Muse

by Obsessive_Fangirl



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Castle AU, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-07 16:30:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14084994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Obsessive_Fangirl/pseuds/Obsessive_Fangirl
Summary: This is for OQPromptParty 218)Castle AU: She’s a detective and he’s a writer.This will have multiple chapters (yes, I have another multi-chap fic now - god help me.)





	My Faultless Muse

Those who say they’ve never thought about what they’d do if they were famous are lying.   
Robin Locksley used to dream about it; he wanted to stand in the spotlight, pose for all the cameras, be able to do anything he wanted…   
When fame was new to him, he revelled in it - also may have shown off a bit - and he had also used it to his advantage now and then.   
But after a few years, the novelty has worn off somewhat. He’s still grateful of course, though he’s not going to lie; he wonders what his life would be like if his books hadn’t propelled him into the spotlight. If perhaps one of his relationships would have worked, or if he’d still live in the city, or if he’d be able to have a conversation where he didn’t have to answer the same questions _over and over_ again.   
It’s the same at all these little shindigs. The same questions are asked at every one; ‘ _what’s your favourite book?’, ‘if you weren’t an author what would you be?’, ‘will you ever write a romance novel?_ ’...  
He feels like he should hand out a quick list of FAQs before these things; ‘ _my favourite book is War of the Worlds’, ‘My plan B was to be a singer’, ‘Romance isn’t my thing_ ’...  
Perhaps then he’d have more time to answer the interesting questions. Just once he’d like to hear something new.   
“Penny for your thoughts?”   
Robin starts, turning to his left to see a slightly tipsy Ruby leaning against the bar, an expectant look on her face.   
He loves his niece, really, he does - she brings a nice energy to these places, an injection of youth - but the thought of having to escort her home after too much alcohol has him rolling his eyes.   
“Who is giving an underage girl alcohol?”   
“I look older than I am,” she responds. “Besides, in three months I’ll be legal so what’s the difference?”   
“The difference is: a twenty year old should not be able to get hold of champagne here, the owners could get into trouble.”   
She slyly smiles. “The owners know nothing about it.”  
“Oh, so you’re using your charm to make the male guests your accomplices?”   
“And some of the girls too,” she grins, giving an exaggerated wink.   
“One of these days you’re going to give Granny a heart attack,” he muses. “ _Another_ one.”  
She looks outraged, her jaw dropping as she scoffs. “Hey! The first one wasn’t my fault!”   
“The next one will be.”  
“Whatever.”  
Robin rolls his eyes at the teenage sass she should have left behind at her last birthday. “Nice. Real mature, Rubes.”  
In a true display of her maturity, she sticks out her tongue at him.  
In a true display of _his_ , he sticks out his tongue at her.   
“So…” she starts, making a show of taking a sip of champagne. “Why are you here with me instead of all your groupies?”  
“I don’t have-”  
“Oh _please_ , any of those women would be down for you if you asked. Literally,” she points out. “They’re definitely groupies.”  
Robin looks over his shoulder at the group of women hanging around, a couple meet his eyes and he offers them a small smile. When they give an exaggerated giggle as if he’s just said the funniest thing in the world, his smile fades and he turns back to Ruby.   
Shit… He has _groupies_.  
It’s not exactly as if he minds, per se - he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t hooked up with a fan or two over his time - but the thought of women following him around purely to add ‘ _I slept with Robin Locksley_ ’ to their list of achievements seems a bit distasteful to him.   
“Are any of them your type?” Ruby asks, obviously mistaking his observation for admiration.   
“No.”   
“‘ _No_?’” Ruby tilts her head, eyes roaming the group before she comments: “They look pretty hot to me.”  
“You sleep with them then,” he quips, before realising what he’s just said and backtracking. “In no way am I telling you to seduce all my guests.”  
Ruby pouts, “dang, there goes my plan for the evening.”  
“I’m not looking for someone to just have a good night with any more, Ruby,” Robin admits. “Sure, those girls are beautiful, and we’d probably have fun, but are they intelligent enough to hold an interesting conversation? Do they have more personality than a wet flannel? Are they stubborn enough to keep me on my toes?”   
Ruby scoffs. “Not asking for much then…”  
“I like adventure, you know?” Robin continues, as if he hasn’t even heard her. “I want something new and exciting.”  
“Mr. Locksley?” He hears from behind him, and he resigns himself to more interaction with his fans. Plastering a smile on his face, he turns to find a woman standing behind him, though instead of holding a book with a coquettish grin, she’s holding up a police badge with an unreadable expression. She’s speaking to him, but he can’t make out the words, too busy drowning in the molten chocolate of her eyes, wanting to reach out to touch the soft hair framing her face, picturing a thousand stories with her as the lead.   
“Be careful what you wish for.” he hears Ruby quip from behind him, and for a moment he wishes he wasn’t knocked off of his feet by the truly stunning woman in front of him - if only to know what’s going on. Though she continues then, “come with me to the station.”  
Uh oh… what’s he being arrested for now?  
…  
The ride to the station is silent.   
Well… silent except for Robin asking questions: “ _what happened?”, “am I in trouble?”, “who ratted on me this time?”..._  
Though he doesn’t get any answers, and he finds the silence truly frustrating.   
“Do you ever talk?”   
She doesn’t miss a beat before countering: “Do you ever shut up?”   
He has to admit, she has him there; “touché.”  
Robin pauses, listening to the sound of the engine and traffic as he’s driven through New York.   
“Didn’t you want to ask me some questions?” He asks, hoping to fill in the silence.  
Though his hope is short-lived when all he receives in response is a curt; “At the station.”  
“Oh.” Since his hopes of being told what’s going on are well and truly dashed, he stretches out his legs into the footwell of the seat next to him, raising his hands behind his head, and sighs. “For the record; I’m single, Aries, and my safe word is ‘magic knickers’.”  
He doesn’t get the reaction he hopes for, instead; “I did not need to know that.”  
“You?”  
Her eyes meet his in the rear view mirror. _God_ , she has gorgeous eyes. “Me what?”  
“You seem like a Virgo, or maybe a Taurus,” he muses. “Something stubborn and sceptical.”  
She scoffs. “Who says I believe in that crap?”  
“Like I said; stubborn and sceptical.”  
He sees her shoulders drop as she huffs out a sigh. “Just stop talking: save your ramblings for the interrogation room.”  
Oh.   
Right.   
He’s going to be interrogated.  
Bollocks.  
…  
If he’s being honest, the interrogation room isn’t as bad as he thought it would be. The pale walls aren’t too stark, the one way mirror isn’t too unnerving, the lighting isn’t too harsh...  
But the only furniture is a table and three chairs - one on his side, two on the other - and he feels somewhat isolated sat by himself. He supposes it’s an interrogation technique, just as putting him in here to stew for a little while after reading his rights is too, but he still wishes the cop from earlier came in soon - and not just because he’s missing her pretty face.   
As if she knows, the door opens and she’s striding in, looking just as stunning as he remembers.   
She doesn’t let him admire her for long; she’s straight down to business, commenting: “You appear to have quite the record.”   
Putting on a show of false modesty, Robin grins. “I try my best.”  
“Grand Theft Auto, Petty Theft, Assault, Drunk and Disorderly,” she lists. “You’re adding quite a few badges to your collection, Mr Locksley.”  
“Robin.”  
Her brows draw together in a frown, nose crinkling as she looks back down to the file in confusion. “Robbery’s not on here.”   
“Not yet.” He sees her eyes roll, and decides to explain what he meant instead of trying to flirt; “call me Robin.”   
“Mr Locksley,” she says with purpose, as if deliberately refusing his request is something she takes pleasure in. “Care to explain how you have all these misdemeanours and yet have never spent a day in prison?”   
“I’m a lucky guy.”  
“One day that luck will run out.”   
There’s something in her voice that unnerves him, and suddenly he feels like he needs to watch what he says. With wary eyes, he cautiously asks: “Is that day today, Detective?”  
She doesn’t answer him - which is foreboding in itself - but then she brings out a paper file in a Manila folder, sits down on the opposite side of the table, and starts interrogating him.  
“Do you spend a lot of time in the Usonia Historic District?”  
He narrows his eyes, knowing that this isn’t a casual question. He loves it there; the woodlands which stretch for miles, the quietness of the community, the beautiful architecture of the homes there… He’s made it no secret what he thinks of it. “It’s a great place.”   
“You have a vacation home there that you rent out when you’re not visiting.”  
It wasn’t a question - he doesn’t even know why she asked how much he spends there if she knew he had property - but he still feels the need to affirm it with a simple, “yes.”  
“When was the last time you visited?”   
Robin thinks back, trying to recollect the last time he was there - to no use. “I can’t remember.”  
She doesn’t sound impressed when she repeats: “you can’t remember?”  
“I don’t tend to plan these things,” he explains. “I go whenever I feel like it.”   
“Right, and when did you last ‘feel like it’?”  
“I told you; I can’t remember,” he grinds out, getting frustrated at the barrage of questions without knowing why she wants to know. “What is this about?”   
“What about this guy?” She asks, ignoring his request for information. Reaching into the Manila file, she brings out a photograph and places it on the table in front of him. “Do you know him?”   
Robin looks down and feels the blood drain from his face. He never wants to see this guy again, even in photographs. Still, the anger this man has always brought out in him bubbles to the surface, and his voice is low when he states: “If you have my record, you know I do.”   
She meets his gaze - and holds it despite all the ire he knows is swimming in his eyes. “Just answer the question.”   
“Yes, I know this guy,” he admits. “Keith Nottingham. What is he accusing me of this time?”   
After the incident between them both, Keith had appeared to want to ruin Robin, had thrown all manner of false allegations at him hoping one of them would stick and destroy his reputation. Fortunately, none of them did.   
“You two had an altercation?” The woman opposite him asks.   
He knows she knows the answer to this - after all, she has his criminal record in front of her - and his frustration returns. “Yes, I caught him being rough with his girlfriend so I decided to see if he liked it,” he snaps. “I’m not sorry.”   
“When was the last time you saw Keith?”   
“A long time ago,” he answers without missing a beat. “Look, whatever he’s accusing me of, I didn’t do it. That bastard just wants to ruin my life because he didn’t like getting a taste of his own medicine.”   
The detective tilts her head, obviously trying to appear sympathetic when she softens her tone to ask: “You were angry with him?”  
Robin bristles, wondering what she takes him for. “Of course I was; you should never hurt a lady.”   
She nods. “Angry enough to put him in hospital?”  
Robin thinks back to crunch of bone under his fist, or storming away after delivering threats and hearing ambulance sirens in the distance. Still he means what he said; he isn’t sorry. “He deserved it.”  
“Angry enough to kill him?”   
“No!” Robin insists. “I may have rearranged his face, but I’m not a killer.”   
The detective sits back in her chair, folding her arms. “Are you sure about that?”   
Robin mirrors her pose, folding his arms and inquiring: “You got anything to the contrary?”   
She brings out a news article, the date of which is burned into his memory; August 15th,1990.   
He’s seen so many headlines they all blur together. The papers were thrown at him, chants were shouted at school, he couldn’t forget if he tried.   
‘Killer Couple Jailed For Life’.   
“It seems you come from a violent background, Mr Locksley.”  
“I am _not_ my parents,” he grinds out through his teeth, tampering down his anger at her insinuation - realising that would simply prove her right.   
With his patience running out, and mood completely ruined, he gives up any pretense at building a rapport with the woman opposite, demanding to know: “what is this about?”   
She sets her jaw, stating: “ _I’m_ asking the questions, Mr Locksley.”   
“And I deserve to know what I’m being accused of,” he counters.   
She still doesn’t tell him what’s going on, instead asking: “Where were you March 10th, at 8:15pm?”   
“That was two weeks ago.”  
“I’d suggest you take a moment to remember.”   
He does, takes his time trying to think back. Usually he’d be at home, spending time with his cousin and Grandma, but two weeks ago he’s sure he was at his friend’s 30th birthday. “I was on my way to a party.”   
“Where was the party?”   
“At a townhouse out of the city.”  
The detective nods, jotting down something on a piece of paper. “What time did you get there?”   
“Probably about 9.”  
“And you were in your car from 8:15?”   
He can’t remember exactly, but he doesn’t want to give her those words for ammunition. “About then, yeah. There was traffic.”  
“Can anyone verify that?”   
“I don’t know,” he snaps. “What’s going on?”   
“Mr Locksley…”  
“Tell me.” He sees anger flare in her eyes at his tone, and he realises that perhaps shouting at the woman who brought him into the police station isn’t the best idea, so he softens his voice and gently adds: “Please?”  
She must know he’s getting irate and worried, and takes pity on him, explaining what’s going on with four words that stop him in his tracks.  
“Keith Nottingham is dead.”   
Robin’s world stops for a moment, and the only word he can manage is a shocked: “What?”   
“He was murdered, his body was found not too far away from your property in Usonia, and we have an eye witness who places you at the scene.”  
Well that was bullshit. He may not remember his movements exactly, but he knows for a fact he wasn’t moving a dead body. “And you believed them?”   
“Forgive me, but you have no alibi, you are frequently in the area which he was found, you’re from a violent background, you have a list of previous crimes, you’ve had a previous altercation with my victim, _and_ you have no evidence to prove your innocence,” she lists. “I have more than enough to put in front of a jury.”   
Realising his dire situation, Robin leans forward, holding the gaze of the woman opposite and silently begging her to believe him when he says: “Detective, it wasn’t me.”  
“Then give me something,” she asks of him, looking as if she wants to find an answer almost as bad as he does.   
“Like what?”   
“You said you were in your car,” she states. “Were you listening to the radio?”  
“No.”  
“Did you see anything out of the ordinary?”  
“No.”  
“Did you use your phone?”  
“No; I was driving.”  
“Did you make a pit stop?”  
“No.” Robin tilts his head back, sighing in frustration as he realises how close he was to having an alibi: “I was going to, but I drove past the gas station when I saw the queue.”  
A light flickers in her eyes, and she looks slightly hopeful. “Which gas station?”  
“The one on FDR Drive, just past the UN School.”  
“Can you remember what time you drove past it?”  
“I don’t know,” he says, starting to get annoyed at hearing those words from his lips. Still, he guesses; “about 8:30ish?”  
“Can you think of anything else that could help you?”  
Robin thinks, racking his brains for something, _anything_ that could work, but after a few moments, he has nothing. “...No.”  
“Okay.” The detective starts putting away the files, pushing herself back from the table. “I’m going to see if I can get some cctv from the gas station.”   
“Right…”  
“In the meantime...” she stands, making her way around to his side. “Mr Robin Locksley, I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder.”  
“What?”  
“For any future questioning, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present. If you cannot afford one, one will be appointed to you. Do you understand?”   
Ironically for an author, Robin has no words, can only nod as a hand under his shoulder brings him to his feet.  
The cuffs click around his wrists, and a deep weight settles in his stomach.   
Arrested. For murder.   
The only thing that passes through his mind, the only thought he can put voice to, is a quiet; “I didn’t kill him.”  
The detective turns him to face her, and for a moment she just holds his gaze. He doesn’t know how she does it, but he feels himself being pulled back from the brink of panic.   
“Then I will find something to prove that,” she vows. “Trust me.”


End file.
